Glimpses between black and white
by janinePSA
Summary: A series of short glimpses into the Crowley-Aziraphale-relationship. I read them as romance, cause I'm a sucker for slash, but you could just read them as friendship-fics.
1. Grin

**1\. Grin**

Angels should not grin, Crowley feels.

It just doesn't seem right. They should just smile benevolently and kind of absentmindedly. The kind of smile that puts you at ease and makes you feel like they do not have the slightest clue about what's going on.  
They should not give you knowing little grins that make your entrails fidget.  
And they sure as hell should not look smug when they do.

Grinning is more in _his_ domain. A 'devilish grin' – now that's a common expression. But who ever heard of an 'angelic grin'? It just doesn't fit.

And some people would do well to mind that. Because some people just behave irritatingly inappropriate.  
And that's coming from him.  
All right, yes, inappropriate is right up his alley, and in any other case he would welcome inappropriateness, but honestly: How is it supposed to be any fun, if there are no more clear-drawn lines that make crossing them so interesting? Point is … well, the point is, demons _should_ be irritating. It's a fine and recommendable trait in them.  
But angels, – no.

You have to maintain certain standards or how is it all supposed to keep from tumbling into utter chaos?  
A delicate balance is to be preserved. Because balancing is challenging and thrilling; whereas stomping around in complete chaos, trying to add to the chaos, is just blunt and requires no skill at all. And it is really lacking in style.

So, grinning angels endanger the cosmic harmony.

And that is a demons-only job, too, thank you very much.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It had been bad enough last time. In a weak moment he had given in to the angels constant pestering to accompany him to a concert he been looking forward to for months. Although he really wished he hadn't. Especially when he had seen the actual program. Making the most of it, he had decided that he would have to try and get some entertainment out of attempting to spoil the event that had been so longingly anticipated.

But when Aziraphale had wanted to buy tickets it had just been sold out. Since the angel refused to work little miracles only for self-indulgence he had just chided himself for not thinking of getting the tickets in advance and had already walked away when the cashier had suddenly called out to them and said that two reserved seats had not been claimed and if they were still interested.

Aziraphale had given him a surprised look. "Did you do that?"

He'd been indignant: "What!? You are going soft in the brain, angel. First you forget about getting the tickets and now you're even forgetting what it means to be a demon, apparently!"

There had been an amused tug at the angel's mouth-corners when he responded. "Oh, yes right. I must really be going soft." And shrugging, _and still grinning_, he had added: "Well it happens to the best of us."

That look he had given him. Smug. Definitely smug. No doubt about it.

So, yes. Maybe he had pulled some strings. So what? There was no reason for the angel to be smug about it, because he couldn't know it had been him. It could just as well have been the cashier's error. Hell, that was even more likely. Infinitely more likely.  
It wasn't like it was typical for him to do nice things for others. Like it was in his nature or something. Because it very much wasn't.

He had been so annoyed that he had completely forgotten to complain all during the show, and had just sat there fuming silently to himself.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

And now this.

He knew how much time and effort Aziraphale had put into getting these delicate flowers to revive.  
He knew because he had told him time and again that he should at least get rid of one pot, to teach the others a lesson and be done with it more quickly. But of course the old wuss hadn't listened.

Last night, the angel had presented them proudly as they had finally blossomed and when Crowley had commented that they still looked weak, he had decided to put them out the next day, because the sunshine would do them good for sure and the weather was finally stable.

What he had also mentioned, was that he had plans to go to the antique market tomorrow afternoon. And the next afternoon there had promptly been a fierce rain-shower quickly turning into hail.

So far so good. Those were the facts.

Why those facts had led a soaked Aziraphale to conclude that it had been Crowley who had gotten the flowers under shelter in the nick of time was beyond any sane or healthily insane demon to understand.

Crowley had been stunned. And deeply insulted. "What? I would never- I can't believe you're even suggesting that!"  
And there it had been again: That smug grin. "Sorry. Stupid of me really." the angel had answered. But his facial expression had not matched the statement. "Well, I'm still glad _someone_ intervened." he'd added and Crowley had felt thoroughly accused by the way he so pointedly said "someone" while looking him right in the eye. It had been impertinent, really.

So yes, all right, maybe he had rushed over to save the flowers from destruction. But it wasn't like that was the first assumption that should come to mind. Everyone walking by would be a better candidate. It was not like he made a habit out doing good deeds.

It was just that if he hadn't, then the angel would have been upset. And he would have had to deal with that. Not that Aziraphale let it show when he was upset. He usually only stooped to some kind of mild disappointment. But Crowley would have known. He knew him far too long not to. And it was just such a bother to see him upset. It had been a deeply selfish act, truly.

So there was no need to be like that. Grinning and such. It was unsettling.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Hey." There is a hand being waved in front of his eyes and he focuses on the angel.

"What?"

"I asked if you would care for a cup of tea while you're already here."

"Coffee, please." Crowley answers promptly.

The lips are curving upwards again when Aziraphale says: "Come on in then."

But that, Crowley realizes, is a smile. A genuine smile, filled with all the gentleness and cordiality of an angel.  
Or a really good friend.  
It is the kind of smile that makes it very hard to stay moody. So grumbling on only a little, more for appearances' sake, he follows inside.


	2. Keys

**2\. Keys**

The road from a grudgingly reached truce to practically living together is not a short one.

But if you have eternity before you, time flies and you hardly notice how a few chance meetings and the odd rendezvous turn into more and more regular visits and suddenly you find yourself spending most of your evenings with the competing field staff and not caring for petty rivalry.

Crowley couldn't even remember the last time he turned on his heels upon finding that the angel wasn't in. Letting himself in had become so much of a habit that he hardly ever bothered to even find out if anyone was in first.

But he did remember that one time when Aziraphale had handed him a little gift-wrapped carton saying: "I had these made for you."

He gave gifts from time to time. Probably a professional obligation, to keep in the spirit of things.  
Just like Crowley had to play some nasty tricks on him from time to time. You might fraternize with the enemy as long as it didn't interfere with the job, but you had to take care not to let yourself go slack.

So – a gift. He had given the angel the due scornful look and unwrapped it, mentally preparing himself for something really thoughtful that he would not under any circumstances be thankful for, and then stood dumbfounded when it was made easy for him. He had held up the key-ring. "You do realize that I can get into your place without bothering the locks?"

Aziraphale had just smiled to that. "Yes, of course."  
As if he couldn't see just what an incredibly pointless purchase this had been. "If it is humans that you are worried about, I always use an illusion for that." Crowley had offered and when the angel had not even reacted to that, he had felt the need to explicate further: !I do that for my own flat, too. I've never owned any keys. It just feels so mundane and pathetic really."  
"Oh, I just wanted you to have them." the angel had said, drinking his tea completely unaffected. Somehow that had been irritating. "Well, I will certainly never use them." the demon had proclaimed, ending the topic resolutely.

And he hadn't.  
Apart from it being plainly unnecessary, it would ruin his reputation.

Entering someone else's house by using force was a perfectly respectable thing to do for demon. It was practically home invasion, even if the invaded left plates of coffee-cake out for you with a little note that, in accordance with the universal law that the good guys have the worst sense of humour, said something on the lines of "Can I tempt you to this?".

It still had the feel of: Someone locked their place, but I did not respect those locks.

I might be a thin line to tread, but you could walk it.  
Whereas being given keys would hurl you so far off that you would land firmly outside the reach of any potential safety net.

It meant that the people whose home you entered not only gave their consent, but trusted you and actually wanted you there. It wasn't just an insult, it was downright threatening. If the down-lows got word of that, he would find himself in hell's deepest pits for a refresher-course before he could even begin to try and talk himself out of it.

It wasn't like he was in their best graces anyway.  
They always suspected him of going native, immersing himself too deeply in human habits.

So he was less then thrilled when, upon coming to his flat tonight, he found it occupied by an uninvited guest as well.  
They _could_ send messages. It was not necessary for any of his superiors to waste their time on handing over assignments personally. But they just loved to poke their noses in his stuff. Always searching for something that would finally compromise him once and for all. As if there weren't enough human souls that needed tainting.  
But nothing seemed as sweet to them as getting a co-worker in trouble. It had been inspiration for some of his best work. Like the evaluation-system. What a 35-page-beauty of pure evil – found in 90 % of the known businesses and getting out of the cage quarterly. Not that he was given much credit for it ...

Instead the dark figure standing in his spotless kitchen waved its long, thin fingers dismissively around the room. "Really Crowley, it is this kind of stuff that will be your downfall. All those little human things you accumulate around you until you start assuming that you need them. What is this rubbish?" He held out a small object between pinched fingers.

Recognizing it, Crowley found a lump forming in his throat, but he hurried to grin apologetically. "Oh, they're just for show. You know, so the humans don't suspect anything."

The intruder gave him a disdainful look. "You could use an illusion."

"Oh, yes, sure." He mumbled, acutely aware that the idea that he had not thought of that himself served only to affirm the other's suspicions. And indeed the red eyes seemed to narrow further. "Get a grip, Crowley." the demon scolded. "Maybe this constant field work is unhealthy. You should spend some more time downstairs to refresh your self-image."

He felt himself grimacing and tried to turn that into a grin as well. "Yeah, sure, soon. As soon as I find the time. There's just so much work, you know. Those humans, you take your eyes of them, they start working for world-peace, feeding the poor, clothing the naked and what not. I can't just leave them on a long leash."

"Hmpf." Obviously not interested in starting a discussion, the figure carelessly flung the key-ring across the room and started to grab some pictures from clear air, explaining whose good endevaours had to be blocked as soon as possible and why.

After the hellspawn had left in a ridiculously dramatic smoke-cloud, that Crowley was sure scorched the exquisite carpet on purpose, he took a few seconds to stand very still. Then, satisfied that the other would not be coming back, he delved down to the ground and started rummaging around under the cabinet. Finally his searching fingers closed around the completely useless bit of metal.

He rose up clenching it and then opened his palm and examined it for a moment. He should really just throw these keys away. It wasn't like he was ever going to use them. He took a little longer – just standing there with the thing in his hand. Then it was carefully placed back into it's vested place in the decorative fruit-bowl.


	3. Desperate

**3\. Desperate**

Crowley enjoys visiting his angel. Especially he loves to irritate him. It is so much fun.

He loves to just start off a conversation with a provocation, something that Aziraphale is sure to have a very clear stance on and then go from there, getting him off balance, twisting arguments, using them against him, switching his own point of view whenever it's convenient and thus rendering hours of well thought-out convincing argumentation obsolete, never letting himself be pinned down on anything and accusing the other of hypocrisy if he wavers ever so slightly, holding him down on each and every little technicality. And if nothing else is left - endless teasing.

It is the sweetest thing and he never tires of it.

But there are times, when his motivation for visiting is very different.  
Those times − every now and then − when desperation is closing its gloomy suffocating claws on him again.

If there is anything hell has in abundance, it's desperation.

Of course there is fire and torture and agony, but below it all, always, a steady flow, a constant dark undercurrent of desperation. Because every split-second that might be free of pain should still be devoid of hope. It's what erodes the last bits of good and leaves the souls stripped of all humanity. So they may be ready to fight alongside the demonical forces in the great fight, one day in eternity.

And no one who is involved with hell can avoid it at all times. You might evade the strange and unusual punishments, but never the desperation. It will hit you from time to time, whatever you do, there is no hiding from it.

Not that Crowley doesn't enjoy his work. It is fun. In all the years since his Fall it has never occurred to him to switch sides. He surely would have been bored to death long before Armageddon. And that used to seem so far away as to never happen. No, as long as you present results and avoid undue attention from the low-downs, it is the life. And he would not change it for a calm and undisturbed mind and a pure conscience in a wooly sweater. Certainly not.

But when the dark flood collapses over him, when his chest aches and he doesn't know how to deal with that feeling of being utterly lost and doomed in any other way – he goes to see Aziraphale.  
He is a straw to cling to and somehow his presence is soothing.  
Perhaps it is the divine spark. That reflected glory of Him, who saved all His followers from desperation. Maybe there is some kind of afterglow, a distant echo that resides in His envoys.  
Maybe it is just the solace of a century-long friendship.  
Maybe those two things are one and the same. Whatever it is – it helps.

And the angel never gloats. Not in these moments. Not about that.  
They are quiet, peaceful meetings, lacking their usual arguments and banter. Usually Aziraphale does the talking. Usually about something mind-bogglingly boring, that Crowley never pays much attention to. He just lets it float past him. It is balm.

And it helps him drift off to blissful unconsciousness.


	4. Sleep

**4\. Sleep**

It used to confound Aziraphale that Crowley was so fond of sleeping.

He just could not see why one would voluntarily choose to fall asleep. You lost time. Time you could otherwise spend on something you enjoyed.

He used to figure that Crowley spending so much time on sleeping had to mean that there were not enough things in this world that he deemed worth his while to stay awake for.  
Which seemed sad. Incredibly sad.

And slightly irksome because Crowley did occasionally fall asleep in his presence.

Of course he got tired, too.  
Not physically tired, because his material form did not require rest, but mentally.  
And that was something every sentient being had to act on.

Humans needed sleep. Not only their bodies − to regain energy lost during the day − but also their minds. Their mind needed sleep to process the events of the day or it deteriorated.  
Among humans sleep deprivation was a known form of torture and it drove people mad.

Whereas Aziraphale, as all ethereal beings, relied on meditation when it came to nurturing the mind; to let it work through an overload of experiences and help it to bring all that in the kind of order needed to keep it functioning.

And one day he realized that he didn't know if Crowley ever meditated. Maybe he had unlearnt it. Maybe he needed the sleep in just the same way human minds did. It would explain why lots of demons seemed positively insane by now. Their minds might have been long since overcharged.

Maybe that's how they came to be demons in the first place. Missing out on the meditation, loosing their calm and then falling helpless, disoriented from the clear path.

Sleeping was not a thing usually considered by immortal beings, so by learning that trick from the humans, Crowley might have saved himself.

Because of that theory, Aziraphale did not feel irked any more when Crowley fell asleep on his couch.  
Because of that ... -and because he looked absolutely adorable when he did.

When awake there was always something slightly tense about him. No matter how suave he came across, there was always something that seemed not entirely at ease. It was hard to describe.  
On the outside he always gave that impression that he couldn't care less, but somehow, underneath a layer of professional nonchalance was something else, always watching, always guarding, always poised to flee.

There were little things, that gave it away.  
For example, it was hard to catch him off guard, even when he seemed entirely inattentive.

And when you looked closely, you noticed how a few tiny muscles never relaxed. Even when he was lounging around places the way only Crowley knew how: Giving the impression of being comfortable at all times, even when he should not, by any rational consideration, be able to be comfortable.

But when Aziraphale looked at that slumbering shape slumped on his couch, mouth slightly open, black hair in disarray and sunglasses firmly in place, if somewhat off-center, he found none of that tension.  
Just calm breathing. Peaceful really.  
And his features turned so much softer. Even childlike.

Aziraphale found it hard to see the demonic in this sleeping form and sometimes thought, there wasn't any. The unconscious mind was untainted by that original sin, that Crowley himself had handed on to humankind.  
The one that started it all, that whole competition of who managed to win the most mortals for their own construct of ideas.

Crowley's sleeping mind knew nothing of this. It did not discriminate between good and evil and therefore, was itself neither.

He was just a dear familiar face with a strange hint of honey on his breath.

And when he came over with an especially hunted look on his face, when it was one of these days where he came in pale and taciturn, refused a drink, refused to talk and just curled up on the couch without so much as even pretending that there was any other reason for his visit – on these days Aziraphale could never help but feel a little proud, that it was his couch that managed to turn this haunted rigid figure into a soft bundle of suit and skin with sweet-smelling breath.  
It was just amazing.

If you sat next to it, it would sometimes try to cuddle and while Aziraphale would never reveal this to Crowley – because the demon would be livid, if he would hear of his sleep-cuddle-tendencies – he could hardly ever resist running a hand through that already tousled hair.


End file.
